I sent a letter to Jacks school. Sometimes new people need to be reminded that autism does not come with an instruction manual. You can hand out one sheet of people with a guideline.

Will change the way that you perceive normal.

Sometimes we all test our limits. Sometimes we will push a little further to get different results. Sometimes we will be amazed by our own frustrations that none of it worked.
Thus this is so with jack.
He is in a new phase of learning, but he is not going into the abyss alone.

He doesn’t like school. He doesn’t like homework. He likes power rangers. He doesn’t like food. He likes pizza. Well, pizza is a food.
Actually food is a whole subject in my family. It is sometime hard when the guide won’t follow his own course. Whatever that means.

I am not really getting this point across. I don’t free form well when it comes to autism. I need to practice the discussion. It has to be a part of the discussion.
It is what brought me to where I am. I sometimes wonder if I would ever have gotten to this place if it weren’t for my son. What if he were a sports loving kid? Would I still be hiding a flask on the ball field? Telling the kids to take five. Daddy needs a smoke break.
Would I have more children? I’d say it is nothing to ponder because I am not there. The road took me here. I am a better man. A poor man but a better man.
I can run fourteen miles without stopping. The only reason I stop is to face the rest of the day with my family.
I can walk up one hundred and fifty flights of steps on the machine at the gym. I am a machine.
And no.
None of it is easy.

I really need to work on my tags. I really just need to focus on one task at a time. Just to be able to work on one writing project for hours a day. Oh the joy! Then to scatter around the neighborhood and diddle with blogs.

What the hell is she watching? Apparently music was too good for her. Now she has brought a television into her office space.
I can hear the cheesy gun shots. There are entry of them so I know it is an older show. A western? I hear no voices. A little crescendo hear and there. Dramatic music is a wonderful thing.
I wonder if this is on a DVD or VCR tape? She is giggling and grunting to whAt I am sure is exhilirating action. I highly doubt that there is cable running through these building. I could be wrong. It has happened once or twice in my life.

Maybe she’s watching the Apple Dumpling Gang. Maybe she is just a further test in my life to see how much I can take. I am at my limit with a bunch of things.

I just had my own dramatic pause right there. I hold back writing certain feelings. I do tell the truth in my tales. Is leaving out parts of my life lying? I know that it is to myself. I don’t know about a reader. So far I have had two. It s more than one.
My son found a shiny nickel at school last week. He found it in the gym. I bet my boy was so happy. It was his lucky day! His EC teacher told him that he must turn that into the gym teacher. If he didn’t, it would be like stealing. Like stealing? Like lying? Like doing wrong? It didn’t go we’ll for either of them. She witnessed a meltdown of an autistic boy. I do believe she should have known better. At least to be aware that negative reactions to a seemingly positive situation is going to have repercussions.

Ok this receptionist lady, whom shall from this point be called Ann. One, because that is her name and two, receptionist is a lot to type out with my thumbs. Ok, at first I was thinking that she was enjoying this spaghetti western a little too much. There were inappropriate grunts and groans coming through the Venetian blind wall that separates us. Then I heard it. The snots. The blowing of the nose. Dear Ann has a cold. I for one do not have one, nor do I believe I shall get one. Ann is making talk to herself now.

My eyes are closing. I had a full day. Work. The gym. Pick up my son from school. Take home to a doctor appointment Bring him to the pharmacy to get some meds for my other son and his infected big toe. Go home and shove down a salad. Spinach I must say is quite delicious. Popeye was right! Then finally, retake my son to another doctor appointment and my appointment with the couch. Of which I barely had a session with
And I was just told I left my lights on in my truck.

My brothers baby momma drops her son, my nephew, off at my house each morning. I have no interaction with because I am already long at work. To put it jokingly, it is my lunch hour when this transaction occurs. I know, I can’t stop laughing either.
This report isn’t about my side splitting wit, nor what I actually had in mind to work on. It is about the boy I. The saggy pull ups.
It’s a sad thing when her little bundle of joy is pasted all over the Facebook full of smiles. Sad because she wants the world to see her little plaything.
Little pee-pee and little toes.
Why not pick him up?

She’s a proud mom. Her life is for her children. She expresses this very close to their birthdays. Her friends from long ago and far away comment on how absolutely wonderful she is.
“What a wonderful mother you are!”
“I am so proud of you raising two children.”
“I don’t know how you do it and still look so good.”

I have known her for five? Six years? I believe her first son has been with her once in all that time. The only reason I know this is from Facebook. Cleverly worded posts makes it seem that son number one is getting the finest education and the utmost of parenting.
Love and kisses. Bye bye. The kid is being raised by her mom in another state.
From the bits and pieces that I have gathered from her life, abnormal is very normal. Perfect me has had a few blackouts in this time period, so some facts elude me. Again, this is t about me. I am at work sipping tea with my pinky in the air. I know. You’re slayed.
Along comes kid number. He was the results of my brother and her doing immoral acts. Hey, it’s the best way to score you this fine life we lead.
So they have this kid. My nephew. Kid one for my brother. Kid two for her. Kid six or seven for her mother is she would be allowed to get her paws on him.
I don’t think that her mother has actually come to see this grand baby. Strange times in the south.
I know that her rock and roll dad has been here. I saw the clip on Facebook. He lives far away also.
Her sister loves I town, but they speak sometimes. She has a few other sisters’ but I have only seen them on the Facebook.
That’s where I’ll have to go when I fill in the facts for this tale.

It’s sometimes uncomfortable where you have childhood flashbacks. I would imagine that controlling the when might be also out of the question. There they suddenly are. For me, I become displaced momentarily and lose my place in time and space.
Being hidden to the world by bubbles and a thin wash cloth, is one of those times.
There I stood, small and seemingly unafraid. Among the others scrubbing and getting a good sudsing in the holier than thou places. Older gents who have had there day in the sun. Their frolics in life. Their mornings filled low fat pastries and the expensive orange juice.
Six showers heads only a dropped bar of soap away. After a few times of being a mere nose length away from becoming an geriactics boy toy, I switched to bottled body wash. If that tips, it doesn’t go far.
All lathered in a sea of different foamed shapes and sizes, I drifted.

I was on my deck in my boyhood home in New Jersey. The eight foot deck was the handy work of my dad. He attached it to the side of our above ground pool. It actually had two decks. One was for the slide. It was a great pool. Being the oldest, I got to take care of it. Testing the chemicals so we didn’t burn out our eyes. Skimming the water for leaves and water skeeters. How they got in there Ill never know. I would have to vacuum the pool of all the creatures and mud and various unknowns. I would get to go in with a special sponge and wipe all the walls to be free of algae or whatever growth decided to appear. Oh the joyous times.
On the days during summer break, when I wasn’t scrubbing or vacuuming or skimming, I was swimming. My friends and I would love to make whirlpools. Five or six guys was the best. All of you would line up around the edge of the pool. In the water, of course. Then, we’d all walk around the pool in a clockwise direction. Counter clockwise was fine too. We walk and walk pulling the water Mali g it follow around with us. Smacking water skeeters, ducking from the massive Jersey horseflies and singing the welcome back Kotter theme song, we created a massive force of swirling water. We would have the water at our command and if we were particularly strong that day, we’d create a water funnel at the center of the pool.
At the count of three. One. Two. Three!
We’d all turn and try to run the other direction. Groans and arghs and laughter we all sucked into the great black hope we created. Nothing could escape it. The weak just drifted along. The strong tested the strength.
We would spend a good half hour or so creating this monstrosity. It was no joke. We eventually all get sucked away crashing into each other and of course trying to dunk any unlucky weakened swimmer. All the toys in the pool ended up in the center spinning on their axis.

You are not going to cure my son. He is not going to snap out of it.
Sending home reports that he will not participate is something that I could have told you.
He will learn by repetition. He will learn by repetition. He will learn by repetition.
It has taken this long for us to get him to know that he has to do work at school. When we told you that homework is not a good thing, we sort of meant it. When the school day is over, he is done. Homework, with many years of attempts, brings nothing s but anger, frustration and tears. We call this a meltdown. It happens when you overload my son.
When he gets in trouble at school for not participating, he puts up another wall. A wall that no songs or nice words are going to remedy. He is very intelligent. It is the getting him to communicate part that we want to work on. We don’t want to go back and have to relearn because you think you can do this.

I have had to learn a lot of new things having an autistic son. I have had to relearn and make new ways of doing old things. I have learned to communicate differently. I have learned to react differently. I have become a new man.

Jack has a certain way of doing everything. It’s all a pattern. Step by step. Don’t dare miss a step or you have to start over. Even in a hurry it is wise to remember not to interrupt a step. Hours of frustration and screaming can attest to this.
Jacks dinner is a perfect example.
Well it is hardly a perfect example of a perfect family, for that is another issue in itself. The dinner table is covered with the things to get done tomorrow. I actually do not want to visit this emotion, so I will pick another topic.
Even thinking about the things that jack does in his everyday duties makes me feel like a terrible parent. They have begun to race through my mind and I feel awful.

Thankfully I am on the couch and this is where I work this out.

I guess him not being like ‘normal’ kids is a challenge. He also has two older brothers. Neither is a prime example of normal, but both are moving in a forward direction and I know that they will have semi functional adult lives. My goal with them was/ is to steer their development into functional adult capacities. They are both sure to be a tad strange. I am far from perfect. Hopefully their sense of humor will make the bad time go away.

I am really steering off course today, couch. I came in here with all good intentions. I wanted to tell how Jack will go into his zone. Breath and begin again?
Sure.

Seemingly from nowhere, Jack will begin his autie ritual. I am not even sure if he is ready for these episodes. We’ll be watching tv like any proper family and suddenly you’ll optics that he’s up and about.
He does this odd pacing thing. It’s a semi circle, sideways half gallop movement. The pace will seem like a possession for if you stand in his way, he will sideways sashae right around you. Putting you hands out to stop him is not a wise thing. No, he doesn’t shoot bolts of lightening out of his eyes but he be one’s very frustrated.
To sit back and watch this spectical is a curious thing. The language that comes out of his mouth is very ‘primatish’?
It’s more of a groan and moan. Long drawn out humming. Sometimes a legible word will come out, but that’s rare.
If he is holding a action figure is it the same similar motion but you cAn tell its a fantasy story going on.
I feel that is what he’s is doing all the time. Sometimes he will laugh mid grunt and be smiling for a full circle or two around the living room. The cats stAnd clear of these actions. They don’t like to be tripped upon. They will stand on the corner of the couch and just watch.
That’s another thing. Our zoo of cats and dogs are. Dry mindful of the boy.

I would….. What’s that couch?
Session over. The old people are here for their session with
Mr John. I bet they have tales to spin.

All comfy on the couch of many skins and what do I hear? Do you hear what I hear? The loonie the loonie.

Mows she has brought a tv of some sort into the office. It sounds like a five inch black and white sporting a radio tuner along the side. May e it’s just a radio playing soap operas.

SHUT UP! Now she’s on the phone.

The worst part about me having sessions on this couch is that I can hear everything. I mean if I were an actual loon like the lady on the phone next to the radiator, I would not want to spill my beans here. Although I am actually spilling my beans, it is not aloud for all to hear.

I imagine this outset office complex was built somewhere in the nineties with leftover materials from the eighties. Three unit buildings littering a somewhat secluded area off of Glenburnie Road. The building that I spin my tales in is directly blocked of view from the main raid by a big old restaurant that shared many a different hay day. Used to be a (insert name here). Remember the food at the (insert favorite name here). Now, as is the case of every failed attempt at culinary wizardy, it is a Mega China. Buffett.
Buffets and I don’t really get along. That could be another session on the couch.

The unit in the building I am in is fairly hollow. Hollow core doors. Why? There are two office doors directly facing my couch. When there are loonies in these offices, I can here every word. I know all of there problems. I am thankful that this is a rare occasion as of late that a patient is in one of these offices. The office that my son and Mr John are in is down the short hallway. The only time I hear them is when my son is screaming. Doesn’t he realize that I am trying to get some work accomplished here! Crazy kid.
Not explaining here makes me all giggly inside.

The office for the receptionist slash wife slash loonie hovers right above the couch. It was once just a space and someone threw up some half walls and a door. The walls do not go all the way to the ceiling and only real direct sound barrier between her and I is a venetian blind. It’s a beige blind.
All during every word typed here she is yapping about anything the crazy on the other side of the phone wants to talk about.

This one guy, I haven’t seen him for awhile, was having relationship problems. I could never quite make out if it was with his girlfriend or his sister. It sounded equally strange in either case. How is a wonderful question.
The lady psychiatrist never really gave the misguided bastard any advice. He always had to work it out for himself. I never fully understand people who really don’t have a clue. Sadly there are many of them.

Some people would say that I am one of them. Well I M getting therapy on my sofa, bub!

I finally came out. You never realize your potential until you do.
Shocked, I was when my friend asked when I would let him read my shit. My shit? I asked inquisitively.
Yes, I saw that you posted that a stranger had read you work. When are going to open up to the rest of us?

Recalling the way I do, I knew exactly what he was talking about, but was very hazy about the rest. I didn’t think that I told anyone about that. Well I did, but it was in conversation with an obscure person.
I told him that I wasn’t ready for full public viewing. Actually I just don’t want my family reading anything until its done. This way they can. It make any corrections and the door will already have swung.
Always do now what you can apologize for later.

He was rather talkative that night. I wasn’t. I was way past my bedtime and I had exceeded my physical capacity for the day.
Earlier that day I received a phone call from this particular friend. Let it be said that I have a pick up truck.
Can you help me move a few things? I’ll need you for a half hour to forty five minutes. Tops.

I knew what that meant. Two hours on my Friday night. I was expecting the phone call. I just didn’t know when, so I had already allotted hell time.
The poor lad was going through a divorce. The ugly part was almost over and now it was slipping into sheer stupidity. Oh well. I would be here for him. He didnt need my advice, for I believe that he is one of the smartest people I know, but sometimes an ear is all one needs to offer.
Five hours later he offered me a meal. I took him up on a frozen yogurt place that I am currently addicted to.
Thus, we got around to his writings and the things he was doing. Good for you, I thought. How much of it was bull, I really don’t care. He always tells a decent story.
He’s better company than me, that’s for sure.
In between my hemming and hawing about going public on Facebook, I told him about an idea I’ve been leaning on. It’s a story about a dad who has an autistic son. Every week this dad brings his son to a therapy session for him to understand his role in this world. As his dad sits in this waiting room, he begins to discover more about himself. He longs for betterment in his life.
Over the years waiting, he has quit smoking and drinking, found peace with his God and found out that he really doesn’t remember his childhood.
He slowly breaks down the walls of his mind and discovers why everything turned out the way it has.

Basically what I am doing here.
I am hopeful now that this will begin to piece together. Now my eyes are closing. The walls are going higher.

I sit on the couch questioning my nose. Wondering whether my son needs a bath or a ripe patient recently blessed this area.
Either way, I’m not moving and I still will lean my head back and snooze when the inevitable time comes. I am becoming less fearful of germs.
Back in June at my doctors visit. The cursed man said that I was ok. I was fine. It’s all in my head. Bah I say!
I did however switch around the way that I handled my diets and supplements. In my drunken hours, I would take my arsenal of vitamins before I went to bed. The thought process behind this he kid move was that they would heal and recover my senses by the time I woke up. All washed down with a big glass of wine. I believed it worked, so I continued the practice up until a week after my doctors appointment.
My wife thinks I’m a pill popper. Huh?
She did say something that made me question my mineral rituals. She said,”you’re taking way tooamy vitamins.”
Hogwash woman!

“You should just take a multi-vitamin and that’s it.”
Be damned woman and go back whence thoust come!

To go into her reasoning and what makes the earth go round is for another day in the far future.

I still hadn’t figure out the cause of my head going wayward each and every day. Ok the vitamins. Could it be?
Never?
Everyone in these magazines and my online research tells me otherwise and I ….
Never! My calculations must be correct! I am so close doctor. Nurse! Get me some alone time!

All I did was change my nighttime ritual to a morning one. I am still not used to it. Years.does not a month breakth.
This is also the same time I found out how large I was actually getting. With the combination of switching moon phases and dieting, I became a better feeling man. Top it off with me exercising again, I am finding the wonderful me beneath my layers.
A healthy body, a getting healthy mind ( with the help of this couch), and an in process healthy soul, I say begone bad germs.
I fear thee not.